This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou’lt prize;
It sings of Love’s enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
 
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid;
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom’d to fade?
 
Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne’er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead
In pity for the poet’s woes.
 
He was in sooth a genuine bard;
His was no faint, fictitious flame.
Like his, may love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.

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